


Welcome To Hell, Johnny-Boy! (A sequel to I guess I can't call you The Virgin anymore, Shezza)

by joinallthefandoms



Series: I Guess I can't Call you The Virgin Anymore, Shezza [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Begging, Demon Deals, Demon Moriarty, Demons, Dom/sub, Heavy Angst, Hell, How Do I Tag, M/M, Pain, Post-His Last Vow, Psychological Torture, Punishment, References to Supernatural (TV), Sacrifice, Sebastian Moran Is As Evil As Moriarty, Sequel, Supernatural Elements, The Rack, Torture, kind of crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joinallthefandoms/pseuds/joinallthefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the previous installment of this story, John Watson sold his soul to revive the deceased Sherlock Holmes. In return for what, you ask? Oh, just his soul.<br/>Jim Moriarty's going to have fun with his new toy.</p><p>If you are not a fan of Supernatural don't worry, I'm just taking inspiration from the storyline of Dean's time in Hell. There will be very few Supernatural elements other than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning Of The End

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of short first chapter, but I'm really excited about this fic. Updates will probably be every four or five days, and I'll see if I can work out a legitimate schedule for future chapters.  
> Let the angst commence

When John Watson awoke, the first thing he registered was the frigidity. There is a common misconception that Hell is intensely hot all the time, but this is inaccurate. It is freezing, if anything. 

The second thing he registered was that he was no longer in a dark London alleyway. From what he could see, or rather what he  _couldn't_ see, he was in some sort of... basement? He really had no idea. An itch erupted in his nose and when John reached to scratch it, a violent spike of pain shot through his shoulder. He cried out in surprise, his mind vaguely registering the clink of a chain. In a panic, John envisioned himself back in Afghanistan, where the pain from the gunshot wound threatened to toss him into the void and the medic screamed at him through the hail of gunfire to stay awake... _  
_

John shook himself from his hallucination, his chest rapidly rising and falling with a panic he had not felt since first returning to London. That, of course, was before he met Sherlock...

Sherlock. 

John's memories hit him like a tsunami. He remembered Sherlock getting shot, he remembered the sudden materialization of Jim Moriarty. With a gulp and punch of realization, John remembered what he'd done. Trembling slightly, he looked at his shoulder, which had a hook driven through it. Said hook was attached to a chain, but John couldn't extend his neck far enough to see where it led. His jumper and coat had been removed, leaving him practically bare to the freezing temperatures in just a t shirt and jeans. The coldness was the least of his worries, though. 

Tremors wracked his body, betraying the fear that was threatening to suffocate him. His shoulders were numb to the pain unless he moved. The problem was, however, that John had a great deal of trouble staying still at that moment. He wanted nothing more than to run, to run back to 221B and put on a jumper and fall into bed with Sherlock. He wanted to see his consulting detective, alive and well and high off the adrenaline of a case. He wanted his Sherlock here with him. 

 _No, that's selfish,_ John reprimanded himself. _After all he's been through, you want him down here in Hell with you because you're too weak to be alone? Man up, John Watson._ This was easier said than done, however, as John's fear just continued to boil in the pit of his stomach. 

The blood dripping from his shoulders and feet were only serving to make him colder. John Watson was a man well accustomed to the warm climate of Afghanistan. He was not well-suited to even the cold London winters, much less the subzero temperatures of Hell. John remembered one time he was too cold during a case and Sherlock adorned him with his coat, laughing at how in nearly touched John's feet...

The warmth of the memory was soon replaced by a deep, resounding horror as John heard a chuckle behind him. His back and neck tensed slightly, causing tendrils of pain to snake down from his shoulders and proliferate throughout his body

"Welcome to Hell, Johnny-Boy," a familiarly dark voice whispered in his ear. John recoiled at the closeness of Moriarty's breath, at the intimacy of his presence. His stomach churned with trepidation, disgust, and hatred. Moriarty chuckled again as John shied away from his voice. He snapped his fingers and suddenly, the scenery changed.

They were in what appeared to be a basement or a dungeon, and yet John was still suspended in the air by the hooks. The room was perhaps a single degree warmer than the previous, but this gave the doctor little comfort. Moriarty strolled around the chains until he was facing John, his black eyes illuminating the dank room. He was still donned in his Westwood suit, looking impeccable as always. His dark hair was slicked back, not a single hair out of place. 

"Missing Sherl, are we?" He taunted, jutting out his lower lip in a disgusting attempt at a pout. John chose not to deign that with a reply. Or rather, that's what he told himself. He was actually too afraid to speak, for fear that his trembling voice would fail him.

With a movement of unnatural and unnerving speed, Moriarty strutted forward and clenched a handful of John's hair in his fist. John hissed as he felt a few of his follicles violently ripped out of his head. 

"I expect an answer, John," he threatened, tugging harder on the hair, delighting in the way that it made John wince. 

"Yeah," John spat. "I'm missing him. I bet you had him killed, didn't you? You fucking orchestrated this."

Expecting a slap or another tug of his hair, John was startled when Moriarty chuckled. "I didn't know you could be so observant, doctor."

"So where will Sherlock end up when he dies, huh?" John growled, trying to mask his own burning curiosity. "I bet you'll bring him straight down here."

"Actually, that depends," Moriarty drawled absentmindedly, taking a step back to observe the hooks embedded in the army doctor's feet and shoulders. 

"On what?"

"Him," came the simple reply. John waited, but Moriarty didn't elaborate. 

"Let's get started, shall we?" Moriarty suddenly said after minutes of silence. He clapped his hands together like an excited five-year old, the sound making John wince. He knew better than to ask the question that was burning in his brain: start what? Perhaps he wasn't as smart as Sherlock, but John wasn't stupid. 

Moriarty grinned manically and snapped. A table materialized next to him, complete with knives, syringes, fire tongs, chains, a bottle of unidentifiable liquid, as well as various other implements of torture. John swallowed the lump that had taken residence in his throat. Suddenly, breathing was difficult and the room was too hot. Moriarty picked up a serrated knife and twirled it in hand. 

"Let the games begin!" He exclaimed. 


	2. Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for this being a tad graphic. Torture trigger warnings and slight language warning.

John's chest heaved with the effort of breathing, his breath coming in strained pants. Blood coated every visible inch of his skin, and still continued to pour and trickle out of his countless wounds. His left eye was gone, leaving him with the paranoia of his limited vision. If he could not see, he had no means of knowing whether or not an attack was imminent. And that bastard Moriarty knew exactly that when he took a fireplace poker to his eye. 

John was bleeding most profusely from the gaping hole in his thigh, which had been first burned away with acid, and then the remaining skin was scraped away with a knife. In addition to this, John was now missing all the fingers on his left hand, as well as the toes from his right. His old bullet wound had been replicated with a rifle, shot barely a foot away from him. His abdomen and face had been bruised heavily by bronze knuckles, and his femoral artery severed. Twice. 

The first time John died that day, he nearly wept with relief. The blood loss had accumulated to such a degree that his heart was no longer able to provide his body with oxygen, and he slowly and agonizingly faded into a blissful unconsciousness. While he did not register anything after he blacked out, John relished in his final moments. His last breath was taken with a slight grin, as he believed his torture to be over. He nearly died again when he was awoken by a piercing blade to his eardrum. His previous wounds had disappeared without a trace, but Moriarty made quick work of giving him new ones. He died thrice more that day, once more by blood loss, once by a gun shot wound to the heart, and when his spinal cord was severed by Moriarty's knife. 

John had sworn to himself at the very beginning that he would not scream. He, being so intransigent and stubborn, managed to suffer through an entire day's torture without uttering a single word, without a single cry. Moriarty was visibly displeased, but something was lurking underneath his annoyance. His dark black eyes gleamed with a certain hunger, with a curiosity that John knew would only be sated by his screams. He was determined not to surrender that on his very first day in Hell, so he bit through his lip and inner cheek in order to remain silent. In his mind, he was only stabilized by his constant repeating of Sherlock's name. Knowing that he saved the one man who most deserved it, well, that gave him drive. It gave him purpose. 

But those were the early hours. John didn't know how much time had passed since Moriarty left him, but he supposed it was irrelevant. The man- the demon- would return, and bring with him a torrent of pain, suffering, and despair. John periodically spat dark globs of blood from his mouth, recoiling at the metallic taste he had become much too familiar with. The dank frigidity of the room seemed to encompass him in its darkness, and although the blood seeping through his torn clothes was hot, it soon turned cold and blanketed him in a sticky mess. 

Despite everything, despite having been put on the rack and subjected to Moriarty's torture for an entire day, John still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that this was real. He was actually in Hell. There actually  _was_ a Hell. Sherlock was dead, and then he wasn't. John was alive, and then he wasn't. Jim Moriarty was a fucking demon. None of it seemed plausible, and yet, as blood dribbled down his chin onto his slightly exposed chest, John knew it had to be real. He just wanted so badly for it to be a nightmare, to be able to wake up in the comfort and safety of Sherlock's arms, to have him push away the bad dreams and kiss him back to sleep. 

John winced as he heard a door open and the clicking of fine Italian leather shoes. Moriarty was back. John sighed quietly but stopped as he heard another set of footsteps. These were heavier, and he could tell by the spacing of the steps that this person had a longer stride. John blinked his one eye as Moriarty came around to face him, Sebastian Moran just a step behind. 

"Of course he's a fucking demon too," John muttered to himself. Moran was grinning slightly, that sideways smirk that John had known so well. But, paired with the dull void of his black eyes, the grin just looked so wrong. 

"Nice to see you're well, John," Sebastian said sarcastically, his arms placed behind his back in apparent ease. His stance was distinctly military, but radiated confidence and arrogance.  _Prick,_ John thought. 

"Black's really not a good color on you, Sebastian," John sneered, putting as much malice into the words as possible. 

"I beg to differ," Moriarty quipped, turning to his tiger. "I think it suits him really well." With that, he smirked a bit as he tugged Sebastian down by the front of his shirt. His lips captured the soldier's in a rough battle for dominance. John averted his gaze as he saw their jaws work in unison, evidently trying to overcome the other. 

He heard the kiss break off with a sloppy pursing nose. "About done, are you?" He complained. 

John groaned as someone- probably Sebastian- drove a heavy fist into his gut. "You needn't be so rude, John," he said.

"I told you he was being awfully stubborn, Sebby," Moriarty murmured, trailing his fingers down the soldier's muscular arm. 

"I can fix that, Boss," Sebastian offered, not taking his eyes from John's.

"Not quite yet, Seb," Moriarty chided. "I haven't made the offer yet."

"What offer?" John interjected, trepidation welling in his chest. He hoped that fear wasn't betrayed in his voice. 

"Always so impatient, the army doctor." Moriarty's voice took on a mocking tone toward the end, accentuating the vowels in "army doctor". 

"What offer?" John repeated, evidently impatient. There was too much shit to be handling for him to have to deal with Moriarty's theatrics as well. 

"I will let you off the rack," Moriarty started. John's heart soared, almost bringing a grin to his face before he composed himself. 

"But you have to torture souls," Moriarty finished. John's heart scurried back to its residence in the very bottom of his gut. 

"No," he automatically said. 

"How predictable," Moriarty sighed. He pouted and shrugged, turning on his heel to stalk out of the room. "Feel free to stay behind, Moran," he called over his shoulder. 

"More than happy to, Boss," Sebastian smirked, already surveying the surplus of instruments strewn across the table. As he picked up a knife which was already slick with John's blood, the doctor managed to summon his courage.

"You're a fucking coward, Moran," he spat, knowing exactly how to push him. 

Sebastian spun around quickly, barely concealed anger exaggerating his brash features. "What did you say?"

"I said you're a coward," John taunted. "I mean, I knew you were illiterate, Moran, but-" He was quickly cut off by a knife that slid between his ribs. John withheld a scream of pain, still glorying in the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him. 

"Didn't you ever wonder why they made you a First Lieutenant and me a Captain?" John asked vindictively. Moran glared as he twisted the knife, earning not a sound from John. 

"It's because they saw you for what you really are," John said. "They saw the man who would eventually turn his back on his men, on his country-" John was effectively silenced by a fist that slammed into his jaw, causing his neck to crack rather uncomfortably. Despite the dull pain that was spreading throughout his face, John felt such satisfaction at knowing that he was getting Sebastian riled up. 

"What did Moriarty have to offer you to get you to turn, hm?" John asked, wincing as Moran continued with his shallow stabbings. This pain was tolerable, it was manageable, but this was probably due to John's losing consciousness. "I bet the second he opened his mouth you were down on your knees for him. You always were a desperate little cockslut."

Moran growled as his anger overcame him and he thrust the knife into John's heart. The army doctor managed a ghost of a smile as he faded into oblivion. 


End file.
